


Tiger

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dogs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, brief references to animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:27:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to this question: How would Moriarty take it if Moran wanted a pet?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> This also gave me a free rein to write about my own existing headcanon on the topic.  
> The pet is not an actual tiger by the way.

  “You are very quiet this evening,” Moriarty remarks, although strictly speaking Moran’s lack of chatter is far from being unusual. In these times it is not uncommon for them both to talk little, simply enjoying each others' company in silence whilst they engage in their own activities, such as reading the newspaper or a book. Moriarty has noticed however that Moran’s brandy is barely touched and this is a more alarming sign. “Are you ill?”

    “No Professor, I’m fine.”

    “Something is bothering you then.”

    “No sir, it’s nothing.” Moran, seemingly finally noticing the quantity of brandy remaining in his glass, now gulps that down.

    “Very well.” Moriarty unfolds his newspaper and returns his attention to the article he had been reading.

    “It’s just…” Moran says at last, just as Moriarty has become engrossed in the paper.

    With a small sigh the professor closes the newspaper, folds it and sets it aside, sensing that he will not be permitted to enjoy it in peace. “Yes?”

    “Can we get a pet sir?” Moran blurts out.

    From Moran’s general behaviour around animals and in particular from the small quantity of animal hair that Moriarty noticed on Moran’s trousers when he returned home this evening, he supposes that this question should not surprise him. Although others might assume otherwise from what Moran has been known to do to various tigers and occasionally other large animals of his former acquaintance, the colonel has a definite soft spot for certain creatures mostly of the four legged and furry variety.

    “A pet?” he says.

    “Yes Professor.”

    “May I venture to state that you wish for a dog in particular?”

    “Sir?” Now Moran looks faintly surprised. He doesn’t recall ever telling the professor about his fondness for dogs.

    Moriarty gives another little sigh. “Really, Moran, do you expect me to remain completely ignorant of your rather disgusting habit of petting every mangy, flea-ridden street cur we encounter?”

    Suitably chastised, Moran looks down at the floor. “No sir.”

   “I will further venture to suggest that the particular dog you have in mind to bring into our home is a brindle-coloured animal, most likely of the pit bull terrier type, and the name you have in mind to call this beast by is Tiger.”

    Now Moran stares at him, wide-eyed. “You knew about him?”

   “No, Moran, but I can infer the dog’s colouring from the mixed colouration of the canine hair I noted on your trouser legs earlier, the approximate height and therefore a suggestion of the type from the positioning of the hairs on your legs, and then I can make a further inference about the animal’s breed from the fact that I know that this afternoon you entered a location well known in certain parts for setting dogs usually of the pit bull type against each other. There I suspect that one particularly unfortunate animal caught your attention and has caused you to now consider asking me if we may have a pet, and as for how I know that you would give such a dog the name of ‘Tiger’ that is, my dear Moran, surely obvious.”

    “Yes, well…” Moran blushes slightly. “Sir, they were gonna kill him, use him as bait and let the other dogs rip him apart.” He looks at the professor now as if daring him to insult him for being weak and sentimental, but Moriarty only looks away and begins to idly drum his fingers upon the sofa as he thinks this through.

    “Where is the dog now?” he asks after a moment.

    “Porter has him, said he’d keep him for a bit for me. I’m sorry, Professor, I know you don’t really like dogs but… I couldn’t just let him die, sir.”

    “Moran, you do understand that keeping a dog here would create a great deal of mess – hair everywhere, muddy paw-prints, destroyed possessions, and perhaps certain other… _unmentionable_ substances left for us to step in.” Moriarty is in fact no particular hater of dogs, but there is a vast chasm of difference between not hating the creatures and actually inviting one to live in his home. “And they are simply _inherently_ dirty.”

    “No more than many people,” Moran points out. “I’ll bath him, I’ll clean up after him.” He fixes Moriarty with a pleading look that makes him appear oddly doglike himself.

    “No, Sebastian, it is out of the question,” Moriarty says firmly. “I am truly sorry, but I cannot have a dog in this house. What if it got hold of my valuable books or instruments and destroyed them? And what would we do with it when we travel? It cannot possibly accompany us everywhere and I am sure our housekeeper would be far from thrilled to be lumbered with your dog in our absence.”

    “I’ll keep him away from your things, I swear,” Moran says. “And Porter’ll take him while we’re away; Porter’ll do anything if you slip him a few bob. Please, sir.” He looks so downcast, even though he thought the professor would refuse his request anyway and it was futile to even ask.

    Moriarty sighs once more and rolls his eyes slightly, but he is forced to confront the knowledge that Moran actually is a very undemanding sort ordinarily. It is the professor who controls most aspects of their lives, even down to where or what they eat and the décor of their home. Moran is content to live by Moriarty’s rules and desires, accepting what he is given and declining to challenge Moriarty much. Although he does crave affection, even intimacy, from the professor, he has never demanded or even asked for more than he is offered. Therefore for him to ask for something now must surely indicate just how much this means to him, and though Moriarty is certain that Moran will not say a further word of protest or condemnation should this request be refused, he suspects its refusal will pain Moran more deeply than it appears. This thought makes him hesitate before refusing again. As hard and as cold as the professor’s heart may be, causing Moran sorrow is not something that sits lightly with him.

    “Have you ever owned a dog before?” he asks.

    “Yes sir, I had a terrier when I was a lad. Sprightly little thing, he was. At least…” Moran turns his face away. “He was until my father got hold of him.”

    This answer, coupled with the clench of Moran’s jaw, the tensing of his fingers as he thinks of his father, stirs that familiar fury in Moriarty – not towards Moran but towards Augustus, who seemed to have a liking for systematically destroying anything that his son showed a liking for. His own control over Moran is wielded primarily because they are both comfortable with this arrangement, not because he is some manner of petty tyrant who seeks to bully his companion into submission in an attempt to counter his own failings as a man.

    “Sebastian,” he says softly, and Moran looks at him sadly, expecting a final firm – albeit apologetic – refusal.

    “It doesn’t matter, sir, it was just an idea, a bloody stupid one.”

    “Sebastian.”

    “Forget I even asked.” Moran stands up, intending to leave the room to try to conceal some of his bitter disappointment.

    “Sebastian!” Moriarty catches his hand and practically yanks Moran over on top of him. “If you would kindly allow me to finish?”

    “Sorry sir.”

    “You may have your dog.”

    Moran’s gaze snaps up to meet his. “Seriously?”

    “I do not jest about such matters. You may bring your ‘Tiger’ here, however!” he cries sharply, as Moran begins to bolt away in his eagerness to go and claim his new pet. “Make sure the animal has a bath first, please?”

    “Yes sir, thank you sir.” Suddenly changing his mind about leaving immediately, Moran throws himself back on top of Moriarty and kisses him passionately on the mouth. “Thank you.”

    “Yes, well, ah.” Moriarty clears his throat, not being quite accustomed to such forthright displays of affection, and he carefully but firmly sets Moran aside now. “Go on then, go and fetch your dog.”

    “Yes Professor, of course.” Moran looks slightly embarrassed now at having kissed him quite so enthusiastically. “I will, ah, I’ll see you in a while then.”

   In fact it is almost three hours later when the professor hears Moran return, when the night sky is absolutely pitch black. The lateness of the hour seems not to dim Moran’s enthusiasm one bit though, as he enters the house with a dog on a makeshift rope lead, one that is indeed of the pit bull type and brindle in colour. Scarred here and there from old wounds too, Moriarty notes as he steps into the hallway to regard the new arrival. The animal pants heavily and sticks close to Moran’s leg, but is already beginning to tentatively look and sniff at objects around it.

    Moriarty is absolutely certain that he will come to regret agreeing to allow this creature into their home. However, he supposes he cannot possibly regret doing something to make Moran happy. The usually so composed colonel looks as excited as a little boy at Christmas as he gently leads the dog forward to meet Moriarty.

    “Professor,” he says, with a beaming smile, “meet Tiger.”


End file.
